


First time

by Romanumeternal



Series: Random stories from the People's Republic of Rome [12]
Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:28:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23070208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romanumeternal/pseuds/Romanumeternal
Summary: Meeting a new person can often be intimidating; especially when they're wondering whether or not to buy you.
Series: Random stories from the People's Republic of Rome [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1116372
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	First time

Jereoth looked me over; his wrinkled face creased into a disappointed sneer.

"By the fucking Most High" he muttered, and glanced irritably at the man behind me. "For fuck's sake, Bothius, I told you to clean the bitch up."

Bothius cringed. "I'm sorry, sir, you didn't give us much-"

"The stock always needs to be ready to view, cretin. That's your fucking job" he hissed. He pinched the bridge of his nose. If Bothius was not a rapist, thug, and bully I might almost have felt sorry for him. Jereoth was right in that his job was to make sure the merchandise - us, in other words - was always washed, clean, ready for sale. His job, however, was also to make sure we put in as many hours as possible on the telephone pool as possible; so that Jereoth could bill those who hired us as much as he could. 

As it was, he'd had little warning. Normally, we were made up before a scheduled viewing, washed, denied food or water the day beforehand, if time permitted, (apparently it makes the body appear slightly more toned), and, in my case, my hair dyed. This time, though, all they'd had time to do was hose me down, dry me, and then drag me from the holding pens to the viewing room.

"Still" Jereoth muttered. "The bitch looks presentable, at least." He took a lock of my hair, sniffed - the cheap dye job was fading already, red beginning to shine through the blonde - "and the customer looks as if she has some money." He looked me in the eye. "Now, the honoured citizen wants to view you, okay? Piss around or play any stupid games and I will make you regret it"

"Yes, Dominus" I said, resignedly. I'd been viewed before, but so far I hadn't been purchased - and I got the sense Jereoth was losing patience. Maybe, impossibly, the thought of reducing my price was beginning to stir in his mind. 

I know what happens to cheap slaves, and it isn't pretty. I nodded, trying to ignore the sick sensation in my belly, the ice water in my veins. It wasn't as if I wanted to stay here - working eighteen hour days as I waited to be sold, fed a bland mush of slave-slop, sharing a cramped, chilly cell with a dozen others - but at least here there were limits to how badly I was ill-treated, and familiarity - even uncomfortable familiarity - is reassuring. I had, after all, spent three months here already.

"Good" he said, as he walked towards the door. Suddenly, his entire expression changed; becoming cheerful, servile, almost charming. He opened the door.

"Ah, Honoured Citizen!" he said. "Please, accept my apologies for the delay. Can I offer you coffee? Tea? Chocolate? Perhaps a lemonade-"

"No, thank you" said a voice. I started, slightly. It was strong, clear - and undeniably a woman's. I frowned. Interesting. Of course,women do buy slaves, but most of my training was based around how to appeal to a man. Not in the obvious fashion, of course - I was trained to be far more than just a bed warmer - but subtley, using my looks. A woman is different - and, slave rumour has it, on average stricter owners. Men may only want one thing, but if the Gods are kind and you play your cards right, you can end up with your owner taking a protective interest in you.

"Well, here she is". He reeled off my slave number (R-5-4-3-8-3-K-T-T-A-3-2-W-E-S) easily, and then pushed me forward. "Please, I know you want privacy, so please buzz when you are finished with her."

In the privacy of my own skull, I laughed hollowly. Privacy? No doubt he'd be observing the whole thing.

I heard the door click shut behind us, and then I was alone in the room with her. 

She leaned back, in her chair, her face inscrutable, giving nothing away. I simply knelt, head bowed slightly; hands clasped behind my head, legs shoulder width apart, spine tall and ramrod straight. A position beaten into me since girlhood and one which I could endure for hours, no matter how much my muscles and joints would inevitably start to scream. A pose of submission, servility; exposing my body whilst showing I knew my place. 

I glanced upwards. She stood up from her chair, after scribbling a few notes on the writing pad on the table next to her, and walked over to me. So close I could smell her perfume - subtle, with notes of pine and lemon. It brought to mind hot summer's days outside, splashing in the river, basking in the sun, enjoyably doing nothing for hours on end.

I hadn't had a day like that for twelve years, I knew that for certain. Possibly I never had done. Memories are not made of rock; they shift and mutate, incorporating often as much dreams and impressions and fantasies as reality. I remembered only snapshots of life before I was sold off, before my father remarried, before to please his new wife he ordered that myself and my mother be sold; and none of those snapshots involved lemon groves or forests. 

"On your feet" she snapped. The voice was aristocratic - a slight Anatolian accent, maybe, to it. I smoothly got to my feet. A movement I'd practised over and over, hour after hour, the cane always ready should the action be anything less than perfect. 

She was taller than I was, though not my much, and perhaps slightly curvier. Older, I reckoned - either on the cusp of leaving her second or entering her third decade. Her skin was darker than mine, too; and her hair black and cut somewhat unusually short for a freewoman; cascading down to her shoulders. 

She looked at me, her face giving nothing away - and then she reached out a hand, running it down my cheek, her fingers surprisingly warm.

"Pretty little bitch, aren't you?" she said, apparently without mockery. 

"Thank you, ma'am" I said, woodenly. I knew enough of the world to know that ugliness was rarely protection from predators - its hard to find a slave (certainly a female one) who's completely escaped an unwanted encounter no matter how plain they are. And, truth be told, good looks have their advantages. Speaking coldly, a pretty face means its more likely your owner will disguise their orders as requests, be gentler with you, perhaps even try to win your affections as opposed to just your body. Of course, that's not certain - nothing about a slave's life ever is. 

But even so, I didn't want the first thing she noted about me to be my looks, and I wondered for a moment why she had done. Was she buying me for one man? Many men? Or was she of the Sapphic tendency herself? I felt my palms sweat slightly, my heart start to race, trying to pick up on any warning signs; seeing if those warnings were evident and serious enough for me to consider trying to sabotage my own sale.

I'd done that once before, back at the Servile Academy. They'd caught on. The whipping and week without food had hurt. But then they'd sold me onwards, as a warning, to this second rate dealership. Sometimes I wondered in the dead of night whether I'd done the right thing, whether I'd thrown away a future as a pampered slave because of nerves and near-hysteria. But there had been that way he'd spoken, the way he'd touched me, perhaps just the look in his eyes, which at the time had convinced me if I ended up his property I'd be dead before the year was out - or wishing for it. An instinctive revulsion, originating deep in my hindbrain. 

Still, her face didn't show a flicker of desire; more casual admiration. She cocked her head, and then slapped me, likely, on the side of the head. Not enough to hurt, but enough, certainly, to get my attention.

"And what's inside that little skull of yours is also quite impressive. I read up on your file. High marks across the board - save for natural philosophy. Can't tell your neutrons from your neutrinos, eh?"

I didn't make a response. She frowned. "I asked you a question, slave."

I opened my mouth, then closed it, wondering if this was some sort of obscure test.

"Er - no. Ma'am. You're right. Mathematics and the sciences I was not as good at."

"But literature, composition,administration, accountancy, you did well in. Cookery rather less so, although not badly. History, too. And...politics and philosophy?" She sniffed. "They teach that?"

"Yes, ma'am." Many of us - well, the luckiest - are meant to serve Senators, work in the Secreteriat, assist the magnates and leaders of the People's Republic - and much as the People's Republic might dislike it, to do so at least some of us need to know skills beyond the merely menial or purely technical.

"Huh." She paused, and frowned. "So I guess being sold to this second rate dealership is a bit of a comedown for you, then?" She smirked. "To go from the Bluestar serving academy to...this?"

"It was the decision of my owners, ma'am." I said, wondering what answer she was looking for. 

"Typical slave answer" she said. "Saying absolutely nothing of importance. And why, pray, did they take that...'decision'?"

I paused, but only for a moment. She was clever, no question about it. And this was a simple test; one for honesty. I didn't doubt she knew the answer.

"I...panicked during my first sale, two years ago" I said. 

"Gods" she said, amused. "Years of expensive training, gone in a snivelling flood. But they were pleased with you!"

"No, ma'am." Bluestar does not tolerate failure, and does not give second chances. They expect to sell only the best; failures and washouts and the hopelessly truculent and the weak are weeded out, without mercy. 

"Huh. Your rhetoric isn't much, though." 

She asked me a couple more questions; some of which she almost certainly knew the answer to already. I answered as best I could, carefully choosing my words, trying to think what answers she wanted to hear. 

After perhaps fifteen minutes of this, she paused. "Strip" she ordered, casually.

I gulped, closing my eyes, and pulling my tunic off, bending over as I folded it neatly and placed it on the floor, next to her feet. I shivered, slightly, in the cold. Her brown eyes looked me over, her expression giving nothing away, but she took a step closer. 

"Very pretty" she grinned, gripping my shoulder, and then moving her hand down my arm. She reached out her other hand, and casually flicked my breast. I said nothing, my face remaining as marble, praying I would not blush, even slightly. I'd been inspected like this before; but somehow the humiliation never went entirely away; reduced as I was to just an object, a tool to be inspected; without a shred of dignity or modesty. 

I swallowed. I wasn't naive enough to think that I'd ever entirely escape the sexual use most of us suffer; and I wasn't altogether a stranger to women in that respect, but the idea of being nothing more than a toy for some smirking, self satisfied Anatolian Roman pig, possibly for years, made me shudder.

"Ma'am" I asked, quietly "what do you want me for?"

She stood back, frowning slightly. "Did I give you permission to speak?"

I shook my head. "No ma'am, apologies."

She cocked her head. "Mind you, it was the first intelligent question you've asked." She shrugged. I didn't dare point out it was, in fact, the first question I'd asked.

"A maid, a cook...but more than that. An assistant, a researcher. An editor."

I blinked. "Editor, ma'am?" I blurted, before I closed my eyes, dismayed at myself for my unintentional outburst. 

"I'm a writer, myself. Occasional journalist. Magazine features, articles in journals, even catalogues and advertisements." She smiled, softly. Not the harder grin of before, with a hint of smirk; but a genuine, small but infectious smile that reached her eyes; the expression of someone who was proud, but justifiably so; and happy with what they'd made of their life. If I had to go for a single word, it'd be contented. 

It was a contented smile, then, and it lit up the room. I felt my face twitch, returning the smile. My heartbeat slowed, a little, my nerves became maybe a fraction less taunt.

"It's interesting, pays the bills, and I'm good at it." This last bit was not said pridefully, but simply as a matter of fact. "But, truth be told, I can find researching a trife dull, I'm not the most organised person, and my prose can be prolix. And I find housework deathly dull" She snapped her fingers, sharply, making me start. "Hence why I find myself here". 

"I see, ma'am. Well, my Latin is good, and I speak Greek and Parthic. My final gradings were-"

"Shut up" she said, not unkindly. "I can read those. I read two of those essays you wrote, as well." She frowned. "Well written, both of them, although your conclusions about the influence of Enclio was a little flabby." She paused. "And I think you'll find that Garius served in the one hundred and twelfth, not the one hundred and twenty first." She looked at me, and then walked to the table, and slid out a piece of paper. She thrust it at me.

"Here. I wrote this earlier. I'd be...interested to see what you make of it."

I took it, realising instantly that this was another test, and scanned it quickly. My heart sank.

Gods above, it was badly written! The grammatical and spelling errors weren't the only problems - in fact, those were minor blemishes on the overall boil. It purported to be a brief description of the tomb of Hallarticus, but the tangled metaphors were almost impenetrable, the descriptions vague, and one was left with the overall impression that a failed poet had visited, not the tomb of one of the greatest men in history, but instead a not particularly impressive warehouse.

Also, I am pretty sure that Hallarticus was a Centurion, not an Optio. And he famously loved his dogs, not his cats. Nor was he born in Colchis. 

I glanced at her. "Ma'am, could I have a pen?" 

She frowned, and then passed me one. With a quick glance at her for permission, I walked over to the wall, and started editing.

It was, actually, surprisingly absorbing, although all the while I was conscious of her eyes boring into my back; trying to guess what she was looking for, what she would judge me on. My ideal position would have been to scrap it and rewrite completely...but she was looking for an editor. Someone to shape her words, not someone to put her own down.

It took me perhaps fifteen minutes of scribbling, crossing out, frowning, and circling before I was done. I handed it back to her, head bowed. She took it, and I thought I detected a slight expression of surprise as she saw the paper, covered with ink. Part of me thought she was probably thinking I'd make one or two minor amends only; I wondered how she'd take the comments I'd made. Thankful for my honesty? Or insulted I'd presumed to edit her work so?

"Well, you're certainly no foot-kisser" she said. I wondered, briefly, where she'd picked up that piece of slave-slang, as she inspected the paper.

I swallowed, hoping my anxiety didn't show on my face. She seemed decent enough - albeit, on very little evidence - and the work she was describing seemed interesting enough; a far cry from the drudgery I'd expected to be condemned too once Bluestar washed their hands of me. I wanted this; if I had to be brought, I wanted it to be her. But her face gave nothing away as she read the paper, and then laid it carefully down on her table, looking at me.

"Hmmm. You're not precisely what I'm looking for, really" she said, finally. I closed my eyes, my heart sinking, wondering if she would explain why not. If it had been some error on my part, some miscommunication - or if it was some factor entirely out of my control. Like so much of my life.

"Yes, ma'am" I said, woodenly. Trying not to imagine going back to the holding pens, trying not to imagine the work the next day...trying not to imagine my future owner, whoever it might turn out to be. I knew that whoever it was, I'd compare them unfavourably with her.

Still, something in my tone must have got her attention, for she looked up. 

"Or do you disagree?"

I hung my head.

"It's not for a slave to disagree, ma'am" I said, softly. "But, if I may...in what way do I not meet your requirements?"

She paused. "I guess...you are untrained. No, not untrained. Inexperienced. I'd like someone who'd actually done it before." She frowned. "I'm not sure I want the effort of training you up to work with me."

I paused. "That might be true, but with me you'd be starting with a clean slate, ma'am. I don't have any preconceptions. All I want to do is serve you, well."

She sniffed, and smiled slightly. "I believe every slave says that. And since when do your wants count for anything at all?" she replied; though the harshness of her words was - slightly - belayed by a smile. She cocked her head.

"I see your point" she said, slowly. "And I guess if you didn't work out, you do have considerable resale value." She took a step closer, and then flicked me, on the nose, smiling at my startled look - and then frowned, taking hold of a lock of my hair. She inspected it, and then her frown grew deeper.

"You're not a blonde, are you?"

I gaped, somewhat taken aback by that question, wondering what relevance it had to - well, anything - and then gasped, as she gave the lock a little tug.

"Redhead, huh? Meant to be prone to disobedience, you know. Not like blondes. They're said to be pliable, submissive - not to mention prettier. That's why traders tend to dye the hair. Blondes are more desirable. Whilst celt-hair like yours? Sign of a certain, how shall we say, lack of respect to your superiors?"

I shook my head. "Not this one, Ma'am. Besides..." I paused, and then added "I rather think blondes sell for more"

She laughed. "They do at that. I'll see if I can get a hundred denarii knocked off your price for that" she whispered, in my ear. No doubt aware Jereoth was watching us.

My eyes widened. "Y-you're buying me?" I asked.

She slapped me across the face - again, not hard enough to hurt. "Repeat that sentence properly, slave."

I gulped. Nice she obviously was, but she certainly understood our respective positions.

"I apologise, domina., I'm flattered that you're choosing to purchase such an unworthy slave as myself, domina."

"I asked for you to repeat it, not add in extra adjectives, but never mind. Yes, I am. You need a name, though." She paused. "Davina? No, you don't look like a Davina. Marcella? Bit too patrician, for a slave. You don't look Greek, otherwise Sophia. And certainly not African or Moorish, which is a shame as I've always liked the name Habtei, for some reason."

I didn't say a thing. Renaming slaves when newly purchased is common enough; indeed for some Romans its almost a tradition. Symbolising, maybe, joining a new familia. Or maybe some just enjoy the power of it, deciding someone else's name for them.

Then, a mischievous smile spread across her face. She snapped her fingers.

"Gods, I have it. I think I want to remember that cheap hair dye, and the slave trader who tried to pass off a redhead as a blonde." Her jovial tone faded, very slightly. "And who knows? Maybe it will be a reminder to you never to try pulling the wool over my eyes. And its a decent enough slave name as well."

"Domina?"

"Flavia" she said. "You're coming home with me."

**Author's Note:**

> Phoebe and Flavia are originally from Mossgreen's wonderful world (and also appear in my story 'Story of the Century'. They are stolen, completely unapologeticly, and used without permission.
> 
> The Bluestar Academies are the most prestigious servile education, indoctrination and training institutions in the People's Republic, and one of the large, selling around twenty five thousand slaves every year. Famously demanding, strict and ruthless, it is estimated that only one in ten 'graduates' the Academy, although even those who are sold to other, lesser slave-merchants are considered well trained, well-leaned and highly obedient. Many higher ranking slaves, especially in more technical roles, attended the Academy. 
> 
> Hallarticus's tomb lies some miles outside of Rome, and is part of the Hallartic Gardens; a vast, walled complex which also includes a library, museum, public baths and a temple. The complex was heavily damaged during the Night of the Drawn Swords, and is often the focus of violent protests between supporters and opponents of the dead dictator.


End file.
